Spoken through Our Voices
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: "They are all on the train, all but one. Susan is, once again, missing. Susan has, once again, run off. Off to do her own things, her own way. The others worried for her. Narnia was not real for Susan, not anymore. Susan was not a friend of Narnia, anymore."


_**A/N: I do not own The Chronicles of Narnia in ANY way. I do not own characters or quotes or the plot or even the small plastic Lucy doll I got from McDonald's when I was seven. Also, this kind of jumps around, so you'll have to guess when and where each scene takes place. **_

_They are all on the train, all but one. Susan is, once again, missing. Susan has, once again, run off. Off to do her own things, her own way. The others worried for her. Narnia was not real for Susan, not anymore. _

_Susan was not a friend of Narnia, anymore._

"Why?" asked Lucy, handing her a comb. The seventeen year old looked longingly at her older sister, not for her beauty, but in worry.

"Why what?" Susan replied, smiling at the girl. Her sister could sometimes hold the wildest fantasies. As children, they had even once played a game about being Kings and Queens of some made-up country. Oh, what was it called? _Narnia. _

"Why won't you come help us? Professor Digory says he thinks he knows where the rings are. We're, Edmund, Eustace, Ms. Polly, Jill, Professor Digory, Peter, and I, we're going to fetch them. Won't you come help save Narnia?"

"Narnia? That _silly_ little game you came up with as a child?" Susan laughed, not seeing Lucy's crestfallen glance. "Oh, dear! What a lark you are. But, honestly, Lu, you're seventeen, it's time to stop playing these games. No one will ever want to marry a mad child who still plays at make believe."

"It's _not _make believe and I'm _not _mad, Susan! Narnia's real, you've been there! Remember Caspian and Reepicheep and Mr. Tumnus?" Lucy looked ready to cry, her arms folded as she pleaded with her sister.

"Creatures you made up." Susan said airily, waving her sister off. "Now, go on, continue with your little game-_but leave me out of it!_"

"Being married is not all that important, Su. It's not the biggest thing in the world, finding a boy." Lucy reminded her sister sadly.

"Maybe not to you, but for some of us, it's the only way we'll survive. Now please, _leave._"

Lucy nodded, opening the door and walking out, forlorn and distressed. Her eldest brother, Peter, opened the door behind her and came into Susan's room, watching his sister for a few minutes silently. She knew he was there, could see him in the mirror, but she also said nothing. Had he, also, come to wheedle her into their nonsensical fantasies?

"You've made Lucy cry, Susan. She misses you dearly. The old you, I mean" he said to her questioning glance. "The one who believed in Narnia and Aslan. What happened to her?"

"_I _grew up, Peter! _That's _what happened! I grew up and you have not! This is silly, allowing them to continue in a child's game! Peter, they, Lucy and Edmund and Eustace and that girl, whatever is her name? Not important. What matter's is that they aren't children anymore. You've got to treat them like they're grown up or they never will."

"You mean like how well you've grown up, with lip sticks and skirts and a new boy every night?" he replied coldly, turning to the door. There was sadness in his eyes, a dimness that only she seemed to receive. Why did he _despise _her so much?

She laughed and tossed her hair, pretending like the words didn't hurt, like she barely heard them. "It's not a new _boy every night_. Besides, they aren't boys, they're _men_. I adore them." Behind her, he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He nodded slowly and moved towards the door.

"We'll see you, then, when we get back. Just, when you're out with whoever tonight's _man _is, don't forget what we said to you, okay?"

She nodded flippantly, already back to primping herself for tonight's date. Behind her, Peter still hovered, looking sad but confident. He stood for a few more minutes and then, like Lucy, opened the door and stepped out.

"We all miss you you, Su. Honestly, we do." She smiled back at him, in what she thought was an endearing way, and nodded. He gave her a grim smile back and walked out.

/

America was lovely, grand. Beautiful and peaceful. There were plenty of car rides and chances to meet graceful young men and fancy young ladies who seemed humoured by her "cute little accent". All the time, she wandered around the hotel she and her parents were staying in, feeling very royal and important. The bellboys catered to her every need, but she mostly ignored them, deigning to sit in the lobby, watching and being watched. Susan was sure her parents were doing, well, _something _here in America, but she couldn't be bothered to remember, so caught up in being free from looking after Edmund and Lucy, who were, for the first time, not her responsibility.

She met the first one-the first boy. He was seventeen, she fourteen. He was tall and had an accent when he was drunk, most likely Irish or the sort. Sober, he sounded just as _American _as everyone else. He called her "adorable" "a doll" and other things. He twirled her around on a dance floor and flirted with her in the hallways as he went about picking up the washing from various hotel rooms. His name was Herbert

He broke her heart when she caught him and one of the maids in the laundry room, giggling and kissing. He tried to apologise, to excuse himself, but she said it was for the best, anyway. It wouldn't have worked out, as she was leaving for England at the end of summer. She had only really understood that at that moment, seeing Herbert with _her. _That this sort of thing, this childhood romance was only fleeting and temporary.

Herbert hadn't seemed too put out about the end of their relationship. That was probably what hurt the worst of all.

There were three others, three other boys, blended together, tossed away into the back of her mind, only rarely thought about and nearly never spoke of.

She began to wonder, in those American hotel hallways, where anything and everything could happen. Could she really have gone to a place called Narnia and been Queen? Or was it another smoke screen, a false statement, like Herbert's teasing "so cute. I love you, honey, sugar,"?

/

If Susan were honest with herself, she was angry. Angry that Aslan had decided they, Peter and she, were _too _old. Pained, that she would never see any of the Narnians again. Not Reepicheep or Mr. Tumnus or the Bulgy Bears. Frustrated, definitely. She had been a _Queen _in Narnia. A _Queen!_ What was she in England? A silly little girl with silly fantasies about growing up and _being _grown up. She had been grown up, once, in Narnia. And then, tumbling back through the wardrobe, back to drizzly, war-torn old England, a child again. Only twelve, after all. Not soon enough, an entire year later, they had all been swept up in a lot of magic and war, brought back to help a young Prince and secure justice in Narnia once more. (_What about her justice? Her reward for helping reign as Queen for fifteen years!)_ It was worse, far worse, than the first time they had left. _That _time was a surprise, unexpected. There had been a possibility of coming back.

But the second time, she was _too old_. She already _understood_. Because, somehow, at thirteen, she already knew everything? Wasn't it supposed to be the opposite? Or maybe, she mused, Aslan thought she and Peter were very mature now.

It wasn't every day the almost fourteen year old was treated like an adult. She felt very important, very...very _Queenly_. Like she was closer to being Queen Susan the Gentle. Except, to be an adult, she would have to give up Narnia, wouldn't she? Eventually, she supposed, she would. After all, if she and Peter were _too old _for Narnia, then maybe that meant Narnia wasn't for her. That it wasn't real at all, only an idea that they had made up, as children are wont to do.

Perhaps, it was in these moments, as she sat in her dormitory, that her disbelief began to grow, to fester. She began doubting that they had ever really gone to a magical land called Narnia or met fauns and battled Wicked Witches or met Kings or _been _Kings themselves. Because, in England, none of that was real or possible.

It couldn't have happened.

/

"_In your world, I have another name. You must learn to know me by it. That was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there"_

She wiped her eyes dry, feeling embarrassed. She sat by herself in a church, _a church _pew, all clad in black. She felt that the others, the others in pews far away from hers, could tell her clothes are cast-offs, clothes from her mother's wardrobe. Her hair was done up in a nice bun, her face hidden by an old hat with a veil. No one saw her, no one noticed. They all trundled past the coffins, five of them. No one invited her to walk up, took her arm to take her past her family's bodies.

_Her family's bodies. _She wanted to scream and throw something. Howl as they carried her away to an asylum. Because, surely, she must me mad, to think her siblings and parents were dead. They couldn't be dead. No one looked at her, came to help, to comfort. Instead, she sat calmly, blank faced excepting a rebellious tear or two. She was a statue, as much a statue as any one of the ones in the White Witch Jadis' palace. (_Jadis didn't have a palace. Jadis didn't _exist.) Her heart was breaking as she sat, unless it was already broken and she was only just feeling the pain.

Behind her, someone touched her back, making Susan jump. Her uncle, Harold, stood, also stony, but in a somber, mature way. He had lost his son. His _only _son. Susan felt childish and tried to wipe the tears away even harder. Uncle Harold wasn't crying. Why was she?

"Alberta suggested we invite you to dinner with us tonight." his voice was soft, yet grim. Even though Uncle Harold was, in fact, her mother's brother, Susan knew little about him except that he usually seemed to let Aunt Alberta and others do the talking. He seemed content to take a backseat, sit and watch. He drove Susan crazy with confusion. How could anyone _not **strive **_to be noticed, to be important?

"Yes, please." she replied, trying to pretend like her mind was blank and she was working mechanically, a wind-up doll. "I would like that." Susan felt that she should add something else, but she couldn't think of anything and so, only smiled as cheerfully as she could and stood up. Except the smile didn't feel all that cherry, more forced, like how she forced herself to come here. Admitting that they were dead and she should have been dead, too.

/

"And sometimes, I wake in the late of night and I go to check on Eustace. It's painful, you know. I keep forgetting he's not dead." babbled Aunt Alberta, managing to eat and depress everyone at the table all at once. She seemed to need to fill the air with chatter, once again oblivious, or merely uncaring, of everyone else's feelings. Alberta turned suddenly to look at her niece, the youngest person at the table. "How do you handle your grief, Susan? I have a therapist, you know. A good, decent man. He's American or possibly Canadian, I don't remember. His name is Herbert Walsh. He's young, but good."

Susan nodded, picking at her food, pretending to agree with everything when in reality, she thinks she's going to throw up. Her aunt continued talking about how wonder the therapist was, how he was helping her deal with Eustace being gone. Susan was sure that, in reality, Aunt Alberta was merely skimming until that fateful moment when she crashed and drowned, just like the rest of them.

"-don't you think so, Susan?" finished Alberta and Susan blushed, realising she had lost track of what was going on.

"Um...yes."

Alberta sighed, noticing her niece hadn't been listening to a word she had said. "I was saying that it would be a good idea if you went in to see Doctor Walsh with me. He'd love to have you, talk to you about your family."

She treated it like it was nothing more than a small blip in life, easily solved with the newest thing blared across the radio. Easily remedied as long as you did this, this, this, and this. How Susan treated life herself. One big balloon. Except now, someone had taken a pin and popped her balloon.

/

The first time, the first time. First impressions are the most important. Except, as Susan found out, her first impression had happened years ago.

_She giggles, rubbing her hands on his neck, laughing at his silly jokes. He's still cute, even after he's been running around, grabbing tuxedos and tossing towels onto beds. He smiles again, then murmurs something. _

"_Don't worry, Su. We'll be together, forever," _

He opened the door, prepared his best "I'm-really-interested-in-you-problems" smile, looks down at this young woman with dark hair and light blue eyes. He's only twenty-five, barely, and since moving to England, his patients have been few and far between. But still it's a far cry from a hotel worker in America.

Until this girl, sent by another patient, insisting he _must see _her niece immediately, this _young women_ shows up at his front door. And what's worse is he knows her. _Susan._

_A light kiss on the cheek, the best he can do. She's a kid, fourteen. Pretty, but still, a customer. He could lose his job, being with her, so they keep the kissing to a minimum, saved for dark hallways. She's constantly touching him, his hair, his shoulders. Giggling. It's annoying, sometimes, and he's tempted to tell her to run off, go play with someone else. _

_Luisa, one of the maids, makes it all easier, with her dark skin and the way she never argues back or giggles. _

_They never knew each others last names. He didn't bother, already aware that they were merely "dating" until she went back. She had been told by her mother not to give anyone her name. Susan assumed the hotel help, especially Herbert, knew everything about the customers_.

"Susan?" he blurted, blinking at her. She looked up, just as surprised to see him. They both were thinking of those moments in the hallways or in the laundry room. Of Luisa and the kiss.

Susan, red, turned away, away from him.

"Wait, Susan!" He called out to her, reaching to touch her.

"No. No, Herbert. I'm not doing this. Not ever again." she stomped off, leaving him in the doorway.

This was the second time she had ever walked away from a boy. The first had been her brothers.

/

Susan wandered around in the little house her family owned, touching pictures and knit blankets that Mum had spent hours on. She wandered into the room her father had built after she insisted upon having her own room, away from everyone else. It was still the same as it had been three weeks ago, when she had turned Lucy and Peter away. Three weeks ago, when they boarded a train and...

Susan jumped, knocking her elbow on the door frame. She needed to get out of this room. Out of this house. Aunt Alberta had already talked Susan into selling it, she had merely come to collect valuables. Aunt Alberta would take care of the rest. She always did.

Leaving the room, she set her bag down in the living room, which was now empty of furniture and Mum's piano, which she had adored.

_A ten year old Susan stood, hands clasped, watching her mother lightly tap at the piano keys, then the student, who was only a little older than Susan, banged away, the pretty tune now loud and angry, like bees. _

"_No, no, like this." Mum said, repeating the tune, light and perky, like Lucy. _

"_Would you like to play the piano, as well?" Mum asked Susan later, in the kitchen. She had been trying to get her children interested, but so far, there had been no fascination with actually playing the shiny thing, only staring and listening to their mother, who played so wonderfully. So beautifully. _

"_No thanks. What would I do with a skill like that?" sniffed Susan, remembering that all the other girls at school wanted to act and sing, not sit behind a bulky piano, hidden from adoring fans. _

"_I'd like to, Mummy!" cried Lucy, settling her chubby body down on the stool, loudly banging on individual keys, making a clanging, noisy sound. At three, Lucy already seemed independent, unaware and unconcerned with how others thought. _

Susan brushed away tears, wandering into Lucy's room, the one the girls _used _to share, until Susan had gotten too old for it. She seemed to be getting to old for many things, as of late.

The room was the same as it had been four years ago, when Susan had moved out, the worn comforter stretched out on the bed, the stuffed toys sitting neatly, waiting patiently for their owner to come home, ignorant to the fact that she never would. A notebook thrown on the wooden writing table, shut tightly. A Bible laying next to it, worn and frequently fingered, if the bent pages and scribbled notes accounted for anything. Pictures of Lucy and Edmund, Lucy and Peter, Lucy and all her siblings, Lucy and friends, Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie at their wedding, pictures, pictures, _pictures. _They hung all over the walls, everywhere, an overwhelming reminder of the young woman, taken too soon.

Susan walked over to the notebook, opening it cautiously. Inside were letters, lots of them, in Lucy's scribbling childish handwriting. The letters started around the same time that she and Edmund had come back from _their _final journey to Narnia and ran all the way up to the day before the..._accident._

_Dear God,_

_There are some things I would like to ask You, Oh Lord, in all Your Greatness. But first, I praise You, My God, for giving me life and a wonderful home and family. For the flowers, which You have dressed and the birds, which You have fed. For the clouds in the sky and the good marks I've received in school, which I earned with Your help. _

_Father, I am worried, however, about my sister, Susan. She does not seem to recognise You and Your Great Works. She is ignorant of Your Ways and Your Love. Please, Father, work through her and help her see You, through the Grace of the Holy Ghost. _

_I ask that You help us as we go to look for the Magic rings Professor Kirke has told us about, the ones that will help us to rescue Narnia. Guide us on our journey and keep us safe. And, should it be our time, make it quick and easy, Lord, so that I may come peacefully to Your side. _

It continued like this, praising God and asking for help and peace for various people. Susan was shocked to see her own name, talked about several times. She hadn't been fully aware that her sister so deeply _cared _for Susan, in such a spiritual way. Especially since Susan had always refused to attend church or even to pray at the dinner table. She had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with this "God" of her family's. It simply wasn't for her.

/

The walls felt like they were closing in on her. No, they _were _closing in on her,squeezing all the air from her lungs, the thoughts from her mind. A constant push, go here, do this, be this person and that person. She hadn't been herself, her old self, in what? Eight, nine years? Her final trip to Narnia seemed like nothing but the memory of a dream, the kind she'd like to forget.

They had called her Queen Susan the Gentle, the voice of reason, grounded where her sister floated, whispered where her brothers shouted. No one ever pointed out the obvious-that she was a coward. Everyone else was eager to reach out and stop enemies in great battles, shouting out to Aslan. Peter and Edmund and even Lucy, ready to defend with words but also with swords. All she had ever done was sit and say why she couldn't, why _they _shouldn't.

Susan had never felt the same connection to Aslan and Narnia as the others had. It wasn't an excuse, it was the truth. Narnia, while a magical reprieve from the real world, did not have the same, fierce, grip on her. Lucy had once said it (_it _being Narnia and all their adventures) felt somewhat like the stories from the Bible, the one their grandmother used to read before she died. The stories that Susan's father had looked at sparingly, only for important holidays, like Easter and Christmas, when everyone had a Bible in hand and a hymn on their lips. It felt like church, the one her parents had started attending when Susan was fifteen, the one they tried to talk her into going to. But, on Sundays, her friends went out to the cinema or for ice cream socials and she'd rather be with friends than in a cold pew.

Sitting in Lucy's room, reading the Bible that her sister had carried practically everywhere, felt like another dream. She didn't like the words she read, on the last page, flipping through it, in her sister's own hand. It sounded like a deceleration to joining some sort of cult.

_I, Lucy Pevensie, proclaim myself fully to the Lord, swearing my eternal love to him. I will continue to follow in his footsteps, sharing his word with my fellows. I will not turn away from the Lord, lest I fall away from the Eternal Word and the Eternal Life. I accept that Jesus Christ is my Lord and my Father. _

"No," Susan whispered to herself. What had her sister signed herself into? How on earth could something, someone, that would take it's own followers lives away-_how could that be any good for her? _

/

The Bible sat in the drawer of her desk, tucked into the very back, ignored. She couldn't look at it, couldn't read it. Clearly, those words were not for her. _Not hers. _The idea of selling herself to some entity, some unknown force, horrified her. She didn't want to be controlled by some distant God that had taken her family away from her.

Her friend, Margaret, smiled up at her from her spot on the couch, sprawled more than sitting. Margie had had more than a few drinks-well, they _all _had-but Margie had never been very good at holding alcohol. Neither was Susan, but she was fairly decent at hiding it. One of the boys stroked Margie's hair. No matter how hard Susan squinted, she couldn't make out the boy's face, blurry with alcohol.

"Hey, Su." mumbled Joseph, settling down next to her, beer in hand. "Haven't seen you in a while. Beer?" he offered, handing her another beer from his pocket. She grasped it in numb hands, letting the cold send a deep shock through her body.

"Where've you been, then, little miss?" he asked, leering at her. Or maybe she was just drunk and it merely _looked _like a leer. Maybe he was really smiling at her. "How come your beauty hasn't graced our dim little lives this past month? Try to give up the rough life?"

"No." Susan replied, decided her head pounded too much to be courteous. She got up but started swaying, the floor rocking as she took a step. Not seeing where she was going, she accidentally tripped on Margie's shoe, which had been flung to the middle of the room.

"Watch it, Susan!" yelled Joseph, catching her around the waist. "Maybe one too many?" he asked and then began helping her out the front door, ignoring Margie's protests behind them to "cam buck, guys!"

Back at the flat she now lived in, Joseph waited for her to unlock the door and flip the lights on. He followed her in, admiring the second-hand (or possibly third-hand) couch with the strange stains on one pillow. Susan walked into the tiny, dilapidated kitchen, getting a drink of water from the sink.

"What's this? Didn't know you were religious." called Joseph, showing her the Bible she had tucked into the desk. It had not been touched in over a month, not since she has tossed it there. She shivered, ignoring his questioning glance and sipped at her water. "Susan? What is this? Is it yours?"

"It's my sister's," she muttered quietly, not looking at him. Why did it matter? Why was she embarrassed? It wasn't like Joseph was all that important. They weren't particularly close; this was actually the first time he had ever been to her flat. "She's dead. That is her's. _Was _her's. She's dead now," she explained. "About three months ago, in a train crash. My entire family is dead. My parents, my brothers, my sister. Even my only cousin. All gone."

"You don't seem too distraught about it. I would have pinned you for the emotional, weepy sort."

"Yes, well, I'm not. I'm not weepy because I'm not sad. I miss them, but I'm not going to cry over it. Build a bridge and all, you know?"

"Oh," murmured Joseph and turned back to the Bible, admiring it. "Can I have this, then? If you don't want it, I mean."

"No." Susan said sharply. "I told you, it was my sister's. Just because I'm not sad doesn't mean I won't keep mementos. You're not all that smart." Perhaps she was more than just a little drunk, that her words were so sharp. She usually wasn't so brusque with the others from her group, but right now her head hurt and she wanted nothing more than to lie down.

"I'm sorry. I'll just leave you, then. Good night, Susan Pevensie."

/

It had been five, ten, twenty-five years. She had married to a friend, or a close acquaintance. Either way, they had met through the same group, decided the other looked very attractive (mind, they were both rather drunk, at the time) and began dating. Susan fancied him in the way any naïve girl could-by pleasing him in every way. The marriage came after seven months of being together, a small bump only three months after.

Susan insisted the alcohol and drugs not enter the flat that the young couple shared. This order was followed through (more or less) and a beautiful baby girl was born. She was named Lucy, and,with regard to her husband's mother given the second name of Christina.

A second child, John Adam, was born three years later. She was now twenty-nine, not as beautiful as she had been, but older and, hopefully, wiser. She and her husband, John the first, were moderately happy, as any middle-class family could be. He worked at an office building, a business run by his father, and she stayed at home with the children. There were arguments, fights, even threats of divorce, but the continued on for the next twenty-five years.

She turned forty-six, a mother of three. Two girls and a boy. She most certainly wasn't as beautiful as she had been twenty-five years ago, but she had aged pleasantly, sweetly. People asked her secret, what creams she used, and she smiled, closing the door and pretending she didn't use _any _creams-that it was all natural.

After all, a woman must have her pride.

Her eldest was twenty-three, sweet in a way that Susan had not been. Innocent, but not naïve. Like her young aunt, Lucy was imaginative and funny. It broke Susan's heart, seeing her sister in this young woman. Knowing her own sister had never even reached twenty-three.

And John, at twenty, was his father in an alarming way, hanging with the types of crowds Susan and John had used to inhabit. Both had given up on that now, but their son apparently had just now gotten into it.

The youngest, Mara, was fifteen, was sweet and quiet. She seemed to not listen to a word Susan said, but never got in trouble. There was no reason to worry about Mara, who went to school and got decent marks, and never stayed out too late or came home drunk. For the most part, the family was very good, very perfect.

Except that Susan kept getting older. Each day, she was less and less pretty. She was truly a mother now, heavier than she had been, a bit more grey in her hair, lines on her face. The dresses, according to her children, were "from another age". She felt out of touch, as did her husband. They had aged, but not grown up, not truly. Both were still inhabiting those shiny days of old, when they were young and single.

Other than that, things were great, things were lovely. Life was solid. Everything was solid. What could possibly go wrong?  
/

The book had travelled with her, from her single flat, to the one she shared with John, to the nice little house, which was cluttered with children and papers and interests that had grown and dissolved over the years. No one paid any attention to this particular book. No one had any reason to. They weren't religious or even remotely interested in Gospel. Sure, John pulled out the old hymn book when his aunt came by and Susan would occasionally murmur small prayers but they didn't belong to a church or claim to be "of God".

Mara found it, old and unopened. It was dusty and the pages had crinkled. It was late August of 1974 and she was spending her last few days of the summer holidays exploring. Her sister was out being friendly with her boyfriend and John was probably _not _in his university classes, but Mara didn't mind being alone. Her parents had taken off for a time, to "celebrate" their anniversary; this sounded more like an excuse to get out of the house, but right now Mara was home alone, for a few hours, and she enjoyed it. As soon as Lucy came back, she wouldn't be able to run around and scream or dig through old notes.

The book had been tucked under a stack of other books, packed neatly into a box which hadn't been opened since 1956. Mara was fascinated, digging through the old books and love letters between her mother and a man named "Herbert Walsh". (which seemed to be very old, even older than Mara or her parents marriage) And then she found _it. _

The words were faded, etched on in a dulled gold paint. The pages had all been written on or folded or circled. She liked the book and words within. She liked the ideas in the book, about this _God _and this _Savior. _The idea was burrowed deep inside her and she kept the book, leaving the others alone, carrying it back to her room. When Lucy came home, three hours later, it was to a quiet house, her sister _devouring _the small, black thing. Lucy thought nothing of it. None of them did, not even Susan.

Until Mara mentioned one Sunday that she was heading to church with a friend as she pinned up her hair, slipping into her nicest dress.

"Excuse me?" spluttered John Senior, staring at his younger daughter. "Going where?"

"Church, Daddy. I'm going to Eloise's church. She's invited me. Ta!" she said, laughing and walking out, not noticing the gaping mouths and disbelieving eyes. _This _certainly had _never _been a religious family. Where had the idea of church come from, and so suddenly?

"I don't like it," muttered John that night, as they settled into bed. "I don't like it one bit. We've survived this long without religion, we'll make it yet.

Susan nodded, turning away, recalling an incident from years ago.

_Lucy, Susan's sister, laughs and hands Susan the biscuit. It's the only one, as there isn't enough for a cake. After all, it's Lucy's birthday, she, at least, might as well get the biscuit. _

"_Here. You split it, Su! You're the best!" Peter and Edmund nod encouragingly. It's Lucy's twelfth birthday, 1944. Susan is sixteen, already turned away from this silly fantasy that the others have. This idea of God and Heaven and all. At sixteen, Susan already knows the only things worth __**anything **__are those that you can feel and have. _

"_All right," she laughs, snapping the biscuit into four, the others crowding around, silently reaching for their own piece. No one takes a bite, though, not even Edmund. They turn to Lucy, smiling._

"_Even if it's not a cake, you should still have a wish," Edmund smiles. "Even if it's just over biscuit."_

"_And no wishing for the war to end." continues Peter. They'd practised what they were going to say today, ever since their mother had mentioned that they would only be having the biscuit. _

"_Yes, Lu, this is yours. Make a wish for yourself," finishes Susan. _

"_Alright, alright!" laughs Lucy, taking her piece and thinking for a moment. "I wish that each day, I grow wiser in the faith of God. And my family, too!" she rushes, as Edmund tackles her, laughing about how she had broken the rule. _

_That night, Peter stops by Susan's room, looking at her. Mother had taken Lucy and Edmund out to the cinema and wouldn't be back for an hour. _

"_You alright?" asks Peter, standing in the doorway. "Everything fine?"  
"Of course it's fine, Peter. Why wouldn't it be?"_

"_Just checking. Wanted to make sure things were good. You seemed upset earlier, when Lucy made her birthday wish." He gives her a sheepish smile, moving closer to the bed. _

"_Is that what this is about? Oh, Peter, stop worrying! I'm not offended, really and honestly. If you lot want to have your Holy Ghost, and if it makes you feel better at night, I won't complain. I don't mind-just leave me out!"_

_Peter nods and smiles softly, turning to go to bed. "We love you, Su."_

"_I love you, too, Peter. You and Edmund and Lucy and Mother and Father."_

"_And Eustace Scrubb, too?" jokes Peter. _

"_Yes, yes, and Eustace Scrubb as well. Now, out!"_

Opening her eyes, Susan stared up at the ceiling of her house, her husband sleeping next to her. That had been thirty years ago. She hadn't thought of that day in thirty years. Even then, she hadn't wanted to be involved in that silly nonsense. And especially not now that her child had been mixed up in it.

/

Somehow, somewhere, Susan had messed up. Mara was getting married in the church, that wasn't the problem. Susan herself had been married in a church as well. No, the problem was that, after the wedding, Mara would continue to walk through this church every Sunday. The problem was that Mara and her soon-to-be husband kept coming by, trying to talk Susan and John into attending a church service, even just once.

The problem was that, just four months ago, they had pulled John Junior's body out of the river, bloated and soaked. He had gotten drunk, too drunk, and slipped on some rocks. And Mara seemed to think this was the oppurtunity the family needed to see _God _of all things! As if, somehow, _God _was here for her, now that Susan's son was dead.

Her daughter looked beautiful, at twenty-four. Much more beautiful than Susan could have imagined. She herself was fifty-five, merely a shell of herself. Lucy, at thirty-two, was prettier than Susan.

Susan glanced around, at her eldest daughter and her family, the couple's five children. At Junior's widow and their young son. At the young girl's swollen stomach and dried tears, her black dress. At John Senior, who stood stoically beside Mara, calm and stiff. They had begun arguing again, Susan and he. She wasn't sure if their thirty-three year long marriage was going to last. Then again, she wasn't sure if it had ever meant anything to begin with.

Mara looked happy. No, much more than just _happy._ Almost eager to marry her fiance, so eager that it hurt. Susan knew the feeling. Susan had forgotten the feeling, drowned it under her bitterness.

/

It was 2012. She was eighty-six. The grandmother of ten. The great-grandmother of three. Any beauty she had ever had had slipped away, long gone and forgotten. She had trouble breathing sometimes. Everything hurt, cracked and old. She felt abandoned, left behind in another century, another time. The world had indeed moved on, far past her. Her husband had died six years ago, at the age of eighty-four. They had never divorced but had stopped sharing the house almost fifteen years ago, only ever looking at each other when the children stopped by for Christmas and the sort.

The nurses here seemed to pity her, this old, fragile creature. She could see it, even if her eyes _were _failing. She could see their stares, their glances at her ancient hands. All of them were young, twenties and thirties. Still young enough to be beautiful. Still young enough to be loved.

"But, Mum, God _does _love you. I've said this before. He loves you, no matter what you do. It's ok, it's always ok to come to him." explained her daughter Mara, sitting by her bed. This was her third trip this week. Susan knew she was dying and so did Mara. That was why she was so eager to bring her mother to God. She had succeeded with Lucy twenty-three years ago, Junior's widow Sarah nineteen years past. Her whole family was seperated from her, dead or so wrapped up in this _ridiculous _religion that they couldn't see the truth. _There was no God. _Susan was proof enough of this. What preciousness did she have? What value? What worth? Nothing! Only memories and bitterness and hatred. No God, not for _her. _

"I'm sorry, Mara, but I've said it before, as well. I'm not interested. Good-bye."

"Please, Mum. Just give him five minutes! Just five minutes with Pastor Brownstein. You'll like him, he's very good. He'll explain things to you, don't you worry. Please, Mum, _please. _Just listen to him."

"No. Good-bye, Mara. This is my final answer. I want you to leave. Don't come back if all you're going to do is pester me with this nonsense. I don't want to hear it. Stop sending me pastors and the lot. Just _stop._"

Mara got up, gathering her bag and her mobile, the newest flashy model, which Susan didn't, couldn't understand. She didn't say anything as she scooped all the flyers and Bible passages into her bag. She didn't say anything as she frowned, tears pricking her eyes. Stopping, she turned back towards her mother.

"Take it," she whispered, handing her mother the very old book, the one Lucy had left all those years ago. The one that Lucy had written all over, that Susan had received and tossed away, that had been stuffed into a box and forgotten, that Mara had found and treasured. The one that sat in Susan's lap, so very old. So very precious.

As Mara headed out, silently, Susan opened the book to the front page.

_Lucy Pevensie _was written on the first page, written in an ink that no longer existed, written in a hand that was long gone.

_Lucy Pevensie, age 11, on March 19, 1943. _

Under that, in the same script _Peter Pevensie, age 16, on April 14, 1943. _

_Edmund Pevensie, age 12, April 14, 1943. _

In newer ink, in a different hand-_Mara Marsh, age 19, on August 2, 1979. _

_Lucy Hill, age 38, December 4, 1989_

There were other names, of spouses and children and grandchildren and friends. Everyone in her family who had been baptised in the church. Everyone in her family who had, in Susan's mind, turned away from reality. Susan blinked back tears, reading each name. She hadn't realised there were so many.

Looking at the back page, at her sister's confession, she felt a small hole in her heart. She felt something pull her to the floor, not even her old knees complaining as the touched the carpet. She felt something all throughout her as she bent her head, the beginnings of words tumbling through her mind and past her lips.

"Dear God, I know that you and I haven't ever really been friends..."

/

"_I miss you, Su," murmurs Lucy, taking her sister's hands and kissing them. "We all miss you. Please come back to us, Susan. Please come back. Aslan misses you, too. I learned something today, Susan. I learned something about Aslan. Susan, I think Aslan is...is **God.**"_

/

_**You know, it's funny. When I first started writing this (about three months ago) I started with two scenes; the very first one and the one about Susan in America. At that point, Herbert Walsh had no name. He had no reappearance. He had a mere three sentences and a quick kiss with some girl in the wash room. And then, poof!, he was gone. Last Monday, I sat down, opened this and stared at it, thinking, "Something's not right," I reread it and found that Herbert was struggling to come out. I usually hate making OCs appear bigger than they should be, especially unimportant one-sceners. But Mr. Walsh kept coming back and telling me, **_begging **_me to have Susan and he reconnect, even for a second. Or maybe more than a second. _**

_**I'm sure a few of you are confused by some of the sentences in the story. Such as that Susan is, finally, free of having to take care of her siblings. Obviously, she wasn't really ever in charge (in England) as there was always an adult **_somewhere **_but she's probably fourteen when she "says" that. She feels that she is, somehow, responsible for everything and everyone. _**

_**Or when she "says" that she's embarrassed by crying at her family's funeral. She's twenty-one. She's got her morals a bit mixed up. What's not supposed to be important (make-up and boys and looking perfect) is crucial in Susan's world. **_

_**Also, I don't buy into the Disney Movie idea of Susan & Caspian. Sorry, I don't really see it. He's this Prince who's busy focusing on BEING a Prince and she's perfectly fine with going back to England and being Susan Pevensie. So, really no Suspian or whatever you feel like calling it. **_

_**Another interesting idea is that when I showed a church friend this, she gave me this weird look and asked if I was trying to say I doubted my faith. I had to laugh. Um, no? Not at all! Does this make it SOUND like I do?**_

_I'll Carry You Home _

_Aslan's Country: Favorite Quotes _


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